And The Ace Makes 21
by nezstereo
Summary: 21 prompts, Brock/Molotov.


AN: 21 random prompts, thus the title. I don't own VB, hm hm. Enjoy!

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**01. inside**

She was never sure of how exactly he found her apartment in Moscow, but there he was, standing in the snow, dripping melted snow all over her doorstep, arms folded across his chest. He'd been wearing shorts and a t-shirt, and had muttered something about being ambushed on his flight over central Russia and a turnover flight in Moscow to Africa, and how she'd been actually pretty easy to find, and weren't Russian soldiers supposed to be impossible to get information out of?

She had punched him, once, hard and in the gut, then allowed him the privacy to stumble inside and fall asleep feverishly on her couch, where he stayed for the next four days with the flu.

**02. sufficient**

For taking her eye, she'd gone to great lengths to avoid him for several years; the separation was the longest they'd gone without seeing one another, four years, and some months (she is certain he would know the exact tally).

When at last they had met again, crossing paths in pursuit of their respective targets, he had said nothing, and neither had she, thus making the subject taboo, unmentionable.

That night, when Brock had told her she'd taken his heart, all she could think was:

_It was a fair enough trade._

**03. nap**

He comes back from his trip with the Ventures, half-expecting to find the compound in ruins or under Russian control. But no, Molotov had proved to be a perfectly fine house-sitter, and he supposes it must have to do with the seventy pairs of designer shoes he's giving her in exchange.

What Brock didn't expect is to find her curled up in his bed, bedsheets tangled around her, fast asleep.

**04. detainee**

Brock squirmed in the chair, swearing under his breath. He's sure he'll have hand-cuff burn tomorrow when he gets home, _if_ he gets home. Escaping from a KGB base wasn't necessarily the easiest thing to do, after all.

When the door was thrown open, he'd been nearly relieved to see Molotov, hands on her hips, wearing a smirk. After letting out a string of barked orders at the guards, who had fled the premises, she'd straddled him, tilting back her officer's cap and unbuttoning the top two buttons of her grey uniform. She'd pressed her lips to his, threaded her fingers through his hair, then slapped him roughly across the face twice before leaving.

Brock opens his mouth after she's gone and lets the key drop into his lap.

**05. presence**

Too often, she found herself stunned at the magnitude of her feelings of joy upon seeing his face; it seemed to her strange that instead of meeting his prescience with fury or contempt, she was always, deeply, secretly delighted to see him.

**06. information**

She'd read his file years before actually encountering him; his only using knives had struck her as admirable and arousing, and she'd never returned the Manila folder to its rightful place, instead choosing to stow it in the very bottom of her travel bag, where it remains to this day.

Sometimes, she still reads it.

**07. shadow**

Brock's been following her for two hours now, shadowing her as she buys a carton of milk and a large bottle of Smirnoff, as she picks up a scarlet dress from the dry cleaners, and now, finally, as she walks home, the groceries under one arm and her dry cleaning slung across her shoulder.

When he rounds the corner, finding her in wait with a pistol, he realizes she's known all along, and feels incredibly stupid.

**08. worry**

"Go on," he tells her, jamming his knife into a man's abdomen, lifting him up off the ground and tossing him over one massive shoulder. "I'll be fine."

And as much as she's certain that he will be fine, she can't help hesitating before turning her back and sprinting off down the corridor.

09. single

He left her one cigarette, already partially smoked, and it's times like these she hates him the most, actually.

**10. part**

Molotov watches him glance at his watch once, then look at his departure gate, and then, at last, at her. Wrapping her in a one-armed hug, he kisses the top of her head, her lips, her cheek.

Then he's gone, with a murmured "I'll be back in three days."

Her hand hangs midway in the air after she's done waving goodbye, and this is when she knows she's hopelessly in love because three days seems like an eternity.

**11. week**

"I thought it was bad manners to wait a week to call a girl back, Samson," Molotov had purred when she picked up the phone.

"How did you know it was me?" he had asked.

"Women's intuition?" had been her reply, and this had made them both laugh.

As seconds of silence turned into minutes, Brock took the plunge, and said:

"Where are you right now?"

His heart had thumped impatiently in his chest, the question and all its implications hanging hidden in the more than two thousand miles that separated them.

"That depends," she had told him after what seemed like an eternity, "Where would you like me to be?"

And with this, he allowed himself the privilege of breathing.

**12. stability**

Brock wakes up, and can't get over the fact that she's still here, in his bed, arms looped around his neck. It's the third week, and he still isn't sure he'll get used to this, this new feeling of _knowing_ she will be there when he opens his eyes each morning.

He adjusts his pillow, lays a kiss on her forehead (she would probably never allow this whilst awake) and goes back to sleep.

**13. sell**

In a fit of rage, for one reason or another, she'd sold his shirt, the one she'd stolen when she'd babysat the Ventures. She kicks herself every day for it, especially when she comes to her room and opens her dresser, eye searching for it to find it absent and long gone.

**14. copy**

Once, he had kissed a Russian woman with red hair and a thick accent and thought he could stretch his imagination a little and believe it was her, only to find nothing in this world is quite like Molotov, who had somehow, _somehow_ been there and kicked in the window in the private train compartment, stabbing the woman in the thigh, pushing her through the shattered window. Brock had had only a second or two to think about how it was just his luck, before the real Molotov had slapped him roughly, then straddled him, pressing her lips to him as if it were punishment (it always was, in its own way).

Nothing in this world could really compare to that.

**15. never**

Brock remembers one time, in New York, when she had looked past their locked arms, quivering in a test to see who was stronger, and had said:

"Will you _ever_ give up, Samson?"

The reply had been too easy, and he'd twisted out of her grip, swinging her by the forearms around and into the brick wall.

"Never, Mol. Never."

Something about this made her smile.

**16. idea**

"'It will be fun' you said," Molotov hisses at him when Venture's attention is focused on Dr. Mrs. the Monarch. "'You need to get comfortable around them' you said."

Brock sighs, knowing he's been found out in a lie that was weak to begin with, since Molotov wouldn't have had fun at this dinner party in any scenario.

"Look, I know this isn't your thing, but I needed the company," Brock pleads, sliding his hand on her knee. "Come on."

She sips from her champagne; Dr. Venture's dinner party, an attempt to show-up his more successful brother Dr. Venture, was winding down in a cacophony of yelling and drunken renditions of "China Girl".

"You are going to owe me, Samson," she tells him, sliding the dinner knife off her napkin and up her sleeve for later. Brock just smiles.

**17. hate**

It was two completely different things to _decide _to hate Brock Samson, and _actually_ go through with it.

Molotov is sure it has something to do with how he calls her "Mol" and the way his eyes always light up a little when they see each other, even when she's holding a gun to his head.

**18. man**

She preserves the memory of running her bare hand over his skin like it's precious gold or an invaluable gem; she remembers feeling the slightly raised shape and roughness of scars along his chest, the muscle just beneath the epidermal layer, the lungs filtering air and the heart pumping blood through his body, much like a well-oiled machine.

The way his stomach rose and fell, rose and fell away from her fingertips, and it had been agony to part her touch from him, even for those few seconds.

Each time she sees a man who catches her eye, she remembers this and nothing can compare.

**19. solve**

He despises the way many women feel he is a riddle wrapped up in an enigma, as if they could somehow crack the code that is Brock Samson, if they tried hard enough.

Molotov doesn't seem to bother acknowledging him as some sort of puzzle. It is more like she is a mathematician and he is the equation 2 + 2 = 4; he is understood, solved before thought was even required, known inside and out before the tip of the pencil has the chance to leave the page.

**20. hypocrites**

He scoffs at fidelity, sleeps with women when he feels like it, but he keeps her _eyeball_ in a jar and a surveillance photo he stole from OSI of her in his wallet. On the rare occasion that someone should ask, he tells them she's his wife.

She pokes fun at his domesticity, his loyalty to his "family", but when she saw him say goodbye to the Ventures, she felt a pang of jealousy and despair that she was too late to offer him the same. When men ask her if they can see her again, she punches them in the throat.

**21. unnecessary**

"I love you," he tells her.

And although the wind drowns out her response, he sees the soft smile on her face.

She knows.


End file.
